
PS 3505 
.R68 15 
1901 
Copy 1 



[OMPSON 'S 




orre^s 



o G 



Tiss^'y 





Class ^/^ii^^vi^d' 

Book i_^^^x<r 

Gopyright^^ /24/ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT, 



In THOMPSON'S 
WOODJ <^^S^ 




THE, BLV£ SKY PRI,SS 



H I 



J^ O 



O 



\1 



Of this book there have been printed two hun- 
dred and seventy-jive copies on L. L. Brown s 
hand-made paper^ and twenty-Jive copies on 
Japan Vellum. This being number / y ^ 



THE LiSfiABY OF 




Two COr-lES Hecbveo 


T^3r^r 


^l^' 11 \%Y\ 


•?4 2 li 


CpF~qiOHT ENTRY 




O-t^t / U-.ici p f 


/9ci 


CLASS Oy XXa IHo, 




t c!i o 1 L 




L... co^-Y a 





Copyright y i()Oi^ by 
Langworthy i^ Stevens 



DEDICATED TO 
KATE SHURTLEFF CRISSEY 



Acknowledgements are herewith made 
TO The Youth's Companion, The Chicago 
Evening Post, and Art in Dress, for 
permission to reprint in this book va- 
rious contributions which originally 
appeared in their columns. 



CONTENTS 



Introductory Sketch 


7 


In Thompson's Woods 


i6 


Mother's Sunbonnet 


i8 


The Song of Songs 


19 


**Ma's Attic" 


20 


A Picture 


22 


Immortality 


23 


Mother 


23 


Resurrection Chant 


24 


Fear 


26 


A Golden Wedding Verse 


27 


The Zithern Player 


28 


Hope's Valentine 


29 


Father's Coat 


30 


Lucy's Boy 


32 


In Thompson's Store 


34 


Pioneers of the Prairies 


36 


On a Photograph of a Boy 


38 


A Milkweed Pod 


39 


A Wish 


40 




OT long after he had 
abandoned the spoon 
as an instrument for 
conveying food from 
his plate to his mouth, 
the Boy became the vic- 
tim of an absorbing and 
loverly sentimentality. 
But it was not his fault. That he was 
prematurely forced into the role of Ro- 
meo, at a stage of juvenile immaturity, 
and compelled to act the Lover before he 
had formed any definite ideas of what 
constitutes a satisfactory suitor or the 
line of conduct most becoming to such 
an ardent personage, was due to the affec- 
tional precocity and maidenly perse- 
verance of a certain small, witching and 
vivacious young miss. 

To those who are wise in the affairs 
of the heart may be left the explanation 
of the fact that childhood in the city en- 
joys a much longer period of immunity 
from the attacks of the Sly Archer than 
in the country ,where the embryo woman 
in short dresses is a shameless coquette at 

7 



a time when the boy of her own years re- 
gards her as a petty nuisance, if he so 
much as recognizes her existence. But 
of this fact there can be no question. 

It was, therefore, while he was still 
**afraid of the dark" that the boy became 
the object of a tender conspiracy and re- 
ceived a gratuitous and almost compul- 
sory initiation into the mysteries and 
vicissitudes of rural courtship. It is true 
that, during this probationary stage of 
his training in the arts of love-making, he 
steadfastly regarded the New Teacher as 
the supreme mistress of his heart, brought 
to her the biggest and rosiest apples that 
the gnarled old "Maiden Blush" trees in 
the West Orchard yielded, searched the 
pasture for the lustiest violets that they 
might be timidly laid upon her desk, and 
would have spurned the thought that the 
time might come when he would cease 
to pay her his fondest adorations. But, 
by grace of some strange law of perver- 
sitv, he suffered no rebukes of conscience 
on this score, nor was he aware of any du- 
plicity of conduct as he progressed from 
8 



indifference and stupidity to becoming 
ardor under the skilful tutelage of his 
small preceptor. 

It was while the springtime stirrings 
of sentiment were still warm and throb- 
bing in the hearts of swelling buds that 
the Boy was impressed into the ranks of 
the world's lovers. The day itself 
impelled to an awakening of dormant 
faculties. Its blossom-scented breath, 
its broad, shimmering sunlight and its 
subtle atmospheric suggestion of awak- 
ening life touched every animate object 
into lively sympathy with its own quick- 
ened and sensitive but dream-laden spirit. 
The irresistible revival of Romance was 
in the air. 

On his way to school that morning, 
theBoy noticed that the calves inThomp- 
son's pasture were frisking about in a 
series of grotesque and ungainly gambols, 
and that the swarms of butterflies which 
scurried up from the glossy, chocolate- 
hued margin of the drying mudpuddle, 
in the center of the road, flashed their 
yellow wings with unwonted animation 

9 



and were dancing, with taunting and airy- 
abandon, far over the pasture fence, be- 
fore he could strike one of them down 
with his palm-leaf hat. 

Even Totman's spavined and su- 
perannuated old gray horse,which grazed 
and hobbled along the public highway, 
paid tribute to the rare and energizing 
qualities of the day by striking into a live- 
ly shamble in response to the passing 
shout of the Boy. 

Lessons were an intrusion and an 
irritation, and the suppressed activities of 
the feminine contingent of the school 
vented themselves in a running fire of 
girlish giggles, while a fusillade of well- 
masticated paper wads filled the air from 
the Boy's Side of the room whenever the 
teacher turned to explain the examples 
on the black-board for the benefit of the 
"B" arithmetic class. An epidemic of 
thirst seized the entire school and before 
First Recess the water pail in the front 
entry had been visited by the majority of 
the pupils. Restlessness was the prevail- 
ing mood anda score of persistently raised 

lO 



hands and snapping fingers were patiently 
answered by the New Teacher, only to 
provoke the monotonous and plaintive 
repetition of the appeal: "Teacher, 
please m' Igo'n sit with — "and the ques- 
tion was invariably interrupted with an 
affirmative answer. 

By the time the school marched out, 
in single file, for the Noon Hour, the un- 
derstanding had become general that all 
the pupils who were not obliged to re- 
turn to their homes for dinner should take 
their lunch pails and repair to Thomp- 
son's Woods, the scene of immemorial 
Sunday school picnics and Fourth of 
July celebrations, there to spend the mid- 
day intermission in frolics about the 
weather-beaten and gaping lemonade 
booths, in games upon the smooth, green 
turf of the more open spaces, and in ram- 
bles after violets, ground-nuts and crin- 
kle root where the trees were huge and 
moss-grown and the thick carpet of dead 
leaves underfoot was but sparingly 
sprinkled with tiny glints of sunlight. 

The journey across Reinhart's 
1 1 



meadow was made with a gleeful rush, 
and the Boy soon seated himself tenta- 
tively upon the edge of one of the picnic 
benches, drew the refractory cover from 
his dinner pail and took from within a 
warped and heated rectangle of bread, 
which exuded a heavy buttery fragrance 
never to be forgotton by the boy who has 
"carried" his dinner. He broke the 
double layer of bread into two sections, 
ate out the softer interior of the piece in 
his right hand and was about to throw 
away the skeleton of crust when the girl 
with the two long braids abruptly sat 
down beside him and said: 

*'Oh,gimmeabite! I didn't bring 
any dinner today and Tin awful hungry." 

He handed her the broken pieces of 
bread in his left hand; his face flushed 
and his powers of speech became tem- 
porarily paralyzed. 

*'Say," she continued, "I'm going 
to start the Needle's Eye. That big bare 
spot over there's just the place for it. 
Come on — let's!" 

And without waiting for a reply she 

12 



seized his hand and led him helplessly in- 
to the treeless open, where they stood fac- 
ing each other with hands joined and 
arms uplifted. Their mates, by clasping 
hands, quickly formed into a ring, which 
was designed to rotate between the girl 
with long braids and the Boy, passing be- 
neath the arch formed by their up- 
stretched arms. 

With hands swaying and feet shuffl- 
ing, the waiting circle began the chant: 

With bow so neat, 

And kiss so sweet; 

We do intend, before we end, 

This happy pair shall meet again! 

Full well the Boy knew that he was 
expected to express in actions the grace- 
ful insinuations of the refrain. He 
nodded his head with a stiff jerk at the 
cue of the *'bow so neat," but at that 
moment he caught the eye of a grinning 
companion, and his courage for the re- 
mainder of the ceremony deserted him. 
There was an awkward and expectant 
pause in the chant. Had it continued 
long he would have turned and fled. But 
it did not. His partner gave her long 

13 



braids a quick, coquettish shake, leaned 
saucily forward and exclaimed ! 

"Kiss me — you little Ninny !" 

He obeyed and the circle started 
forward, winding under the archway of 
arms and singing: 

The needle's eye 

That doth supply 

The thread that runs so truly 

O, many a lass have I let pass 

Because I wanted you-ly ! 

At the end of the last syllable she 
pulled his hands down upon the neek 
of the Solemn Girl. This captive took 
the place of the initiator of the game 
and the ceremony was repeated until the 
clang of the First Bell warned the merry- 
makers to return to the schoolhouse. 

The crimson circles still glowed in 
his cheeks long after he had taken his 
seat. He dared not lift his eyes from his 
book to look in the direction of the Girls' 
Side. 

The realization of his stupidity was 
strong upon him, andhe wondered if She 
would ever speak to him again. His 
doubts, however, were of short duration. 

H 



When he returned from the geography 
recitation he found upon his desk a min- 
utely folded piece of paper. It was lab- 
oriously unfolded, and he then read this 
assuring message: 

if you love me as i love you 
No knife can cut our love in to. 
After school, that night, the girl 
did not go ^*cross-lots" to her home, as 
usual. Instead, she chose a longer way 
by the road — and the Boy walked meek- 
ly and awkwardly by her side! 




IN THOMPSON'S WOODS 

WONDER if in Thomp- 
son's woods 
The violets push their mod- 
est hoods 
Through bedded leaves 
which frosts and suns 
Have wasted to frail skele- 
tons — 

Networks of silver veins to strain 
Sunlight and shadow, dew and rain, 
Into a nectar that shall thrill 
Hearts of new violets, and fill. 
With odors of the budding wood. 
Each heart within each blushing hood. 

I wonder if in Thompson's wood 
The partridge rears her speckled brood. 
And scuds away beneath the brush 
When alien footsteps break the hush 
That hangs above her mossy nest 
And dwells within her mottled breast. 
I wonder if the springtime brings 
The whirr of countless pigeons' wings, 
The thousand springtime signs and 

sounds 
With which my memory abounds. 
i6 



I wonder if the summer's night 
Is threaded by the wheeling flight 
Of mad-cap whip-poor-will, whose cry. 
Like wail of ghost, goes shud'ring by. 
I wonder if the beeches wave 
As soft a shimmer o'er your grave, 
Sweet girl, as when the hunter's moon 
Turned midnight into brightest noon, 
And first I kissed you as we stood, — 
That night of nights! — in Thompson's 
Wood. 



MOTHER'S SUNBONNET 

There are hats by the dozen and score 
On their pegs in the shop windows 

bright, 
And bonnets with ribbons galore, 
The eyes of each passer invite — 
Some soft as the neck of a dove. 
Or as apple blooms jeweled with dew; 
Some fair as a day-dream of love. 
And dearer, by far, it is true! — 
But friends I would barter them all 
And trim them with greenbacks and 

gold 
For a moment of time to recall 
From the dust of the grave, as of old, 
A patient and glorified face 
And the checkered sunbonnet whose 

brim 
Was touched wdth a halo of grace 
From mother's eyes, faded and dim! 



THE SONG OF SONGS 

Ah! poet, vainly striving for a theme 
To voice the unformed music of the 

heart, 
And catch within the cunning net of art 
The faint elusive phantoms of thy dream: 

Leave lonely tields, and yet more lonely 

throngs, 
And in the kindly twilight stand before 
The meanest cabin; from its open door. 
In low, sweet strains, will float the Song 

of Songs, 

As soft the mother's eyes yearn o'er her 
child. 

And from her crooning lips, like incense 
rare. 

She breathes the vespers of her mother- 
care 

Above the lids its music hath beguiled ! 



19 



-MA'S ATTIC" 

Sometimes when I've been 'spesh'ly good 
An' brought in heaps an' heaps of wood. 
An' keptf'om muddyin' up the floor, 
Hain't dragged my feet nor slammed the 

door. 
Ma says to me: *'If you'll take care 
Not to upset the things up there 
I wouldn't wonder if vou may 
Go to the attic for your play." 
Gee! Don't I like that attic room, 
With grandma's spinning-wheel and 

loom! 
I tell you it's the bestest place 
For boys to play — -just lots of space, 
An' yet it's full of trumpery 
That interests a boy like me. 
Bags of good things to eat up there — 
If you just happen to know where! — 
Sweet flag and cherries that I got 



Out of old Thompson's pasture lot 
Along th' banks of th' Mazon, 
An' brought 'em home to nibble on. 
There's grandpa Dowd's old hat and 

cane — 
I wisht he'd visit us again! — 
But best of all what ma calls "truck" 
Is my great grandpa's sword that's stuck 
Behind the chest he took to sea. 
It's just a little long forme, 
But when I climb upon the lid 
Of that old chest I'm Captain Kidd; 
An' then I swing the sword an' say 
Bad pirate words — but just in play! 
Who cares for spider webs an' dirt 
That's in the attic? They don't hurt! 
They hain't another place to play 
Like attics on a rainy day! 



A PICTURE 

Is this your dream of Love: A piquant 

face, 
A girl in just her girlish, lissome grace? 
Oh! this is not Love's picture as it stands 
Within my heart ! Paint me two folded 

hands 
That tell of patient toil and pain and 

prayer, 
Hands that have lifted many another's 

care 
And made it light, as mother's hands 

will do — 
Then you have painted Love, sublime 

and true ! 



I c'C. 



IMMORTALIY 

There is no death ! The flowers of Love 

and Truth 
Live on, and ever shall live, while 
At that old fable Death we only smile, 
As at a childish tale recalled in youth. 



MOTHER 

Lips voicing only God's sweet tender- 
ness; 

Far-seeing eyes for the incipient good. 

And faithful hands that never cease to 
brood 

Above their own, content to serve and 
bless ! 



RESURRECTION CHANT 

Stirs the heart of bud and bird 
With the resurrection word: 
Hallelujah! 

See the glad perennial birth, 
Life again is Lord of earth, 
Hallelujah! 

"Christ is risen !" Song and flower 

Shout the sweet triumphal hour. 

Hallelujah! 

Joy, not Sorrow, reigns to-day — 
King of Kings shall reign for aye! — 
Hallelujah! 

Sleeping hopes put forth their bloom; 
Song unseals the vanquished tomb. 
Hallelujah ! 



Hail in every scented breath 
Of bursting bud the doom of Death, 
Hallelujah! 

Love immortal from the soul 
Every prison stone doth roll, 
Hallelujah! 

Hail the resurrection morn: 
Christ in every heart new-born! 
Hallelujah! 



FEAR 

Once, like a hunted fugitive, I sped 
Across the dreadful desert of Existence 

drear — 
Each shadow of its driving sands a Fear 
Full-armed with lance of fateful, unspent 

dread! 

But now no more I fear, for spent and 

fled 
Is every phantom of potential ill; 
Truth bids each lying sense be still; 
Love fills all life, and Fear itself is dead! 



A GOLDEN WEDDING VERSE 

Count not the years like treasured gold ! 
Love knows no hearts as young or old, 
But mocks the flight of phantom Time, 
Nor heeds the New Year's hollow chime. 
Youth is before you, not behind; 
A thousand golden summers wind 
Before your happy foot-steps' tread — 
Age cannot touch the truly-wed! 



THE ZITHERN PLAYER 

Over the zithern's strings 
In vibrant wanderings 
Her supple fingers glide; 
Now soft as Lethean dreams, 
Now swift as singing streams: 
A fickle, slumb'rous tide! 

What wraith of sad Despair 

Guideth thy fingers fair 

In mellow, dreamful grief? 

A ghost of mournful wind 

Whispering of Love unkind 

To Autumn's lonely leaf! 
* * ;5^ 

Strike out a sweeter tune 
Like the soft hint of June 
Upon thy blushing cheek — 
Of dewy blooms that tempt 
The boisterous bees unkempt 
Their honeved sweets to seek! 



28 



HOPE'S VALENTINE 

Thus would I write my heart's best val- 
entine: 

The wish that every weary soul may 
know 

Sweet rest; that those who thirst may 
quaff the wine 

Of heavenly inspiration, cup divine, 

Kindling all being with its holy glow! 

To those earth blinded souls who grope 

and fear, 
Nor lift their eyes to Hope's serenest sky, 
My valentine would be a thought to clear 
Each darkened sense, dispel the visions 

drear 
And for each specter show an angel nigh. 



FATHER'S COAT 

It dangles from the chimney hook 
Where it has hung a score of years — 
A ragged coat! Yet as I look 
Upon its faded folds, the tears 
Once more in tender mists arise, 
Touched with the light of childhood's 
skies! 

Among the rows of rustling corn 
I catch the old coat's glint of brown; 
It moves afield in gray of morn 
Nor rests 'till evening settles down 
And crickets chirp the cheering lay 
That marks the soft decline of day. 

Astride its smooth-worn collar band 
A bare-foot boy is perched in state — 
His bridle rein a brawny hand. 
His goal the balsam-shaded gate 
Where the tall charger drops his load 
And plods adown the dusty road. 



30 



What wealth of sweets from village store 
Has hid within those pockets old! 
More prized than gems from foreign 

shore 
Or all the Orient's wealth of gold, 
The dear old coat sheds kindly grace 
From him who hung it in its place! 



LUCY'S BOY 

I never see a leetle shaver scud 

F'm school t'reach th' nighest vacant lot; 

'Thout thinking uv the cunnin' leetle 

spud 
That my own Lucy an' her man hes got. 

I s'pose I'm biased in his favor — still, 
His han'some pints t' me er jest es plain 
Es sunshine on th' slope uv Beechum's 

Hill, 
Chasin' th' shadows 'crost th' growin' 

grain. 

I'd ruther hold that boy ag'inst my vest 
An' watch him suck his chubby leetle 

thumb 
Than own the likeliest farm in all the 

west 
Er half th' golden lots in Kingdom 

Come! 



32 



There ain't a robin er a medder-lark 
Thet's got a sweeter voice than Lucy's 

boy; 
An' I'd stop fam'ly prayers plumb short 

t' hark 
And hear him whistle "Come Ye Sons of 

Joy"! 

Th' apple blossoms siftin' f'm th' tree 
Ain't half so sweet as Lucy's leetle chap ; 
An' when he comes ag'in t' visit me 
He'll camp — fust thing — in his ol' 
grampa's lap! 



IN THOMPSON'S STORE 

I've tramped this city o'er and o'er 
An' hunted high an' low to find 
A loaiin' place like Thompson's store, 
Where them that's sociably inclined 
Can sit an' talk with neighbor folks 
An'spin their yarns an' crack their jokes. 

I'mgoin' back again to where 

I'll hear the old man Thompson call: 

"Come, jine the circle! Take a chair!" 

Why, bless my soul! I know 'em all; 

Their kinks are jest as plaint' me 

As doin' sums by rule o' three. 

It makes me lonesome when I think 
Of how we sat around the stove 
In Thompson's store an' tipped the wink 
An' gave Si' Biggs a gentle shove 
When ol' maid Lucy came t'buy — 
'Bout Christmas time — a man's black tie. 



34 



Gossip, of course, without no end! — 
But harmless talk, for each one there 
Was reckoned everybody's friend 
An' bound t' see all treated fair. 
I'd ruther sit in Thompson's store 
Than tread the finest city floor. 

We've settled weighty problems, too, 
Around that red hot cannon stove; 
An' words of wisdom, good an' true, 
From out God's holy book of love 
Were heard from honest lips intent 
On some deep gospel argument. 

No more of city life for me! 
I'm goin' home to warm th' chair 
That's waitin' with a welcome free 
As God's green fields an' country air 
In Thompson's store. Lord bless th' 

place! 
I's stocked with honest goods and grace! 



PIONEERS OF THE PRAIRIES 

Sons of New England's stern and hardy 

stock! 
In rugged frame and sober, care-seamed 

face, 
Their early struggles, 'mid a soil of rock. 
Have left, perchance, a dark and sombre 

trace; 

Sharp as the husk that hides the ripened 

corn. 
But sound of heart as is its hardy ear ! 
I hold a better race was never born: 
To wrong a fellow man its only fear! 

In Northern woods they felled the giant 

pine 
And caught the spirit of its rugged 

grace; — 
Through prairies traced the furrow's 

blackened line. 
And grew in manhood with each patient 

pace 



:e! 



36 



Thanks for your legacy of honest worth: 

Your grand humility, your conscience 
true; 

A royal heritage! a kingly birth ! 

Unstained and pure as morning's bright- 
est dew ! 

But greater thanks that we to-day may 

scan, 
In human symbol and in mortal sign. 
The deathless lineage of Immortal Man, 
Child of God's thought — the fatherhood 

Divine ! 



ON THE PHOTOGRAPH OF A 

BOY {To Little Piatt Meadowcroft) 

Blue-eyed dreamer, tell me true: 

Is the world as fair to you 

As the smile that lights vourface 

With its sweet and tearless grace? 

Life: is it the glad surprise 

That laughs at me from those dear eyes ? 

And are the hearts of men as white 

As that pure forehead kissed by light 

And touched with curling strands of 

gold? 
Is this the face of soldier bold ? 
And these a general's lips, that part 
In smiles upspringing from the heart? 
More like a thought of Love you seem 
Than child of man or mortal dream; 
And such I hold you, little friend, 
For every mortal dream must end; 
And only God's child shall endure 
Forever gentle, sweet and pure! 



38 



A MILKWEED POD 

Only a bit of wayside folly — 
A midge of Summer dancing along 
To mingle with your Christmas holly, 
Making the notes of the year's full song. 



A WISH 

If wishes into sweet fulfillment turned 
I'd tread again the dusty old turnpike, 
Where sentinels of royal sumach burned 
In knightly plume and nodding rusty 
spike- 

I'd rout the yellow butterflies that stay 
In pulsing circles 'round each drying 

pool, 
And then I'd stop an hour or so and play 
With all the boys about the Munger 

school — 

Build aqueducts of hollow smellage stalk 

And prison dams for speckled "horny- 
dace;" 

Then ramble down the willow-shaded 
walk 

That skirts the millpond and its winding 
race. 



40 



When evening came I'd fire a big brush 
heap, 

Piled high with boughs of fresh cut ever- 
green; 

And w^atch the wild sparks upward dance 
and leap, 

Till all the sky swirled with their ghostly 
sheen! 



HERE endeth the book, IN THOMP- 
SON'S WOODS, as written by Forrest 
Crissey. The cover, title page and end 
paper designs are by Harry EverettTown- 
send; the initial letters by Frank B. Rae 
jr.; the whole being printed and sold by 
Langworthy & Stevens, at the House of 
the Blue Sky Press, 4732 Kenwood Ave- 
nue, in Chicago, Illinois. Done in No- 
vember, M CM I. 



^^^Bi^Ol 



DEC 27 1901 



a 



THOl 



iM^.M*"^ OF CONGRESS 

i'i'iiiiliillililllllllll 

018 603 925 7 ' • 



WOODJ ^ ^ 




rorre^s 



o Gri 



risse^>^ 



